


i’m having sex with a ghost, cause she knows i’m alone

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Emotional Infidelity, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Past Character Death, Vague Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29452341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This is simply a night terror wearing Ingrid’s skin.And yet, despite how her skin crawls, Dorothea does not attempt an escape from the prison that is a ghost’s touch, not when a traitorous heat is pooling between her thighs at the thought of a dead woman.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	i’m having sex with a ghost, cause she knows i’m alone

**Author's Note:**

> General content warning for... Honestly I’m not sure what to call it. Dehumanisation? Dorothea refers to the ghost as _it_ as she believes it’s a dream. Whether or not the ghost is really Ingrid or just part of Dorothea’s imagination is up to interpretation.
> 
> I wanted to have a go at writing something out of my comfort zone, but the sex I intended to awkwardly write quickly became just angst. I don’t know why I expected anything else.

The sheets of Dorothea’s dorm room bed are gripped tight in her palm, stress forcing her hands to clench down as her knuckles whiten to the colour of ashen snow.

“Dorothea,  _ my  _ Dorothea,” the ghost sighs, nose pressed to the curve of her stomach as it mouths tender kisses over her ruined skin, wounds no longer kept safe from prying fingertips.

Dorothea’s bottom lip quivers in something akin to revulsion, but she cannot find it in her to shove away the phantom hands that caress the curve of her chest, touch fleeting and wispy, barely more than a breeze over the peak of her breasts.

She does not gift it with a whisper of  _ yours,  _ not when Dorothea is meant to be tied to a woman who still walks the lands of Fodlan. This is simply a night terror wearing Ingrid’s skin.

And yet, despite how her skin crawls, Dorothea does not attempt an escape from the prison that is a ghost’s touch, not when a traitorous heat is pooling between her thighs at the thought of a dead woman.

Ingrid would not sound like this. She was spite and devotion, always so vocal in her stance on chivalry and honour, batting away any words she did not like with vehement disagreement. 

The ghost croaks and croons, voice not louder than a mere whisper as it speaks word that Ingrid would never have to an enemy willingly working against her King. But Dorothea still let it strip the crimson robes from her bare form, because she is a weak, lovesick fool. 

Dorothea does not have it in her to pray to a goddess she does not believe in to relieve her from this nightmare. She is not deserving of absolution. This is a punishment cast upon her from the heavens, a consequence of the many sins she has committed.

Loved ones died to her hands and she witnesses the echo of them in the mirror situated in her bedroom and in the reflection of a fish-filled pond. They clasp bows and swords in their decomposing hands and threaten Dorothea’s sanity with their hollow gazes, soldiers of their causes even in death.

And now this visits her as the moon rises, an eerie reminder of all that Dorothea had lost to the tide of war and the bittersweet taste of victory. A tongue scrapes down her stomach, over the small scar trailing over her hip bone, one that will forever remind her of that fateful day in Arianrhod. 

Blonde hair is loose around the ghost’s ears, dragging over her skin, and part of Dorothea wishes to thread her fingers through it and pull till the ghost unravels at the seams. Perhaps if Dorothea lost herself to the wilderness, this pain would exist no longer.

But the ghost is not violent, it does not clench a lance in its greyed hands, and Dorothea does not have the strength to treat the mirage image of her dear Ingrid so callously, even if each of its touches is a stab to Dorothea’s aching heart.

She nearly shrieks when its hand rubs over the harsh cut that still lingers below her left breast, but bites her lip and muffles a pleased sound when it dips to where her core has become slick and wet.

Such a reaction is truly beyond her control, for she’ll forever crave what she cannot have, and it clings to her so desperately, sucking the life out of her till she’s nothing more than a husk.

Dorothea would once pamper Ingrid’s skin with a soft brush, dapping soft shades of red onto the seam of her lips as Ingrid complained half-heartedly and tried to swat away her skillful hands. The makeup was scrubbed away more often than not and Dorothea would compliment Ingrid’s bare face as handsome just to see her blush an interesting shade of red. 

Now she sits in front of that same vanity mirror, hiding away the evidence of sleep-deprivation from beneath her eyes and trying not wince when an apparition towers over her, leaning in to whisper sorrowful, sweet nothings against her temple. 

Something crawls up her throat when fingers linger over her folds, a noise rooted in the dread that forms in the pit of stomach and the knot of pleasure that follows soon after.

A pleasant ache sinks deep inside of her and yet it almost feels as if it’s not there at all. She reaches out, her blood-stained hands coming to rest over its golden hair, but her hands simply slip through its visage.

Dorothea does not deserve love. Permanence is not hers to be owned. She has never deluded herself to think so, not since she was an orphan surviving on the streets of the capital. And yet hurt still strikes through her that she cannot even reciprocate the touch of a false lover.

She has never been silly enough to crouch in the soil of the greenhouse and play  _ she loves me, she loves me not  _ and she has never been optimistic enough to believe in the myths of the Goddess Tower, not when destiny tore her from Ingrid’s embrace. 

A tear trickles down from the inner corner of her eye, spilling over her cheekbone, burning her face as if it’s holy water. The ghost is playing her like it knows her inside and out, heartstrings being forced to thrum a rallying cry.

Dorothea thinks of the words she mutters in the heat of battle and reminisces over being that rose, cut off from the roots that kept it thriving, beauty lost under the blunt reality of war. Her wilting petals fall off one-by-one as she flashes thoron through a faceless enemy’s spine, fueling her mourning into the spells that spark over the palm of her hands. 

She thinks even more of anything that could make this just stop, trying hopelessly to override the never-ending grief with the affection and whole-hearted pride she feels for her strong and breathtaking Edie. 

But while she finds love in Edelgard and the quiet mornings they share sipping tea and the inevitable matrimony they will find themselves tangled up in, somehow it’s a love that feels so lonely. 

Dorothea wishes she could sink into the arms of an emperor so easily, but there’s a hole in her heart forever moulded into the shape of a knight. The hard ridges of Edelgard’s ram-styled horns do not match the green ribbons that Dorothea would once wind around her fingers.

It would be utterly wrong of her, but Dorothea wishes to nestle a pegasus feather into the underskirts of her wedding dress and burn it once night falls upon her and Edelgard’s shared bed, a final goodbye that she couldn’t manage to give while Ingrid still breathed. 

Dorothea shakes and shudders as pleasure rattles through her, the tips of her toes dug deep into the mattress since her legs cannot wrap around a ghost that refuses to be tangible.

“I will see you soon,” it tells her, something slick dripping over its chin, a rosy hue to its cheeks as if it has the ability to feel embarrassment, even though the words seem bitter. “It will not be long till we are forever together. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

The ghost’s fingers trail over the side of Dorothea’s neck and it feels like a deceitful warning, a threat hidden behind gentle touches that feel no connection to Ingrid’s abrasive demeanor.

Ingrid’s hands were calloused, covered in scars that must have come from years of rigorous training. At least, Dorothea thinks they were. She never thought she would have ever had to savour the feeling of them against her own, relying on just her memories when she assumed she’d always be able to reach out for Ingrid’s presence. 

The ghost pries her eyelids shut and it feels like the sealing of her own fate, something one would do to a corpse still shell-shocked in death. Sleep sinks over her, like a pillow smothering her till her lungs cave in. Dorothea can’t help but think being six feet under would be a lot more comfortable than living in the walls of Garreg Mach.

It leans down and ghosts its lips over Dorothea’s slack own, the delirium threatening to sweep her back under settling at the one last touch before it vanishes as if it was never even there to begin with. Dorothea doubts it ever was.

When Dorothea awakens, sun casted through the curtains, thighs still sticky with sweat, she’ll find that ring from all those years ago has been slid onto her finger. She does not remember putting it there.


End file.
